


The Sound of Silence

by hetaliareference (bowandero)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Rape, Sadism, hello darkness my old friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowandero/pseuds/hetaliareference
Summary: Germany often wishes Italy would talk less. (Please read the warning and tags.)





	The Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't something I would normally write so I'm guessing it was probably another kink fill or just me trying to write something terrible. Either way I achieved what I wanted with this so I'm posting it.

Italy breathes in, a labored sound, and Germany gives him a lazy smile.

"Been a while, hasn't it?"

Germany trails his lips down Italy’s breastbone, allowing himself to feel the hammering of Italy's heart against his ribs.

"W-wait," stammers Italy, from beneath him, and Germany snorts. _How cute._ "Please," Italy adds, but Germany kisses the words from his mouth and begins to loosen his belt.

Usually, normally, Italy is full of talk.

It always begins early in the morning, when Italy first comes down stairs already jabbering about this or that, grumbling about a lack of sleep, a hangover, a nightmarish dream. "It was really weird too, want to hear about it?" he'll say, as he's pulling on his uniform, as he's straightening his tie, and Germany will reply, patiently, between the crisp turning of a page in the morning paper, "no, not really."

In the afternoon, when Italy comes back from the battlefield with a hole or two in him, this is the time for stories. Italy will go on at length about his battles, his strategies, the local girls he and the soldiers met, and Germany doesn’t tell him to be quiet, just goes to apply the antiseptic and gets a little satisfaction with every hiss of pain.

In the evening, when the day's work is finished, when Germany is settled down on the sofa with a book in his hand and Italy in his lap, that is when he begins to ask questions. "What are you reading?" is a common question; "are we going to see Japan tonight?" has gained popularity as well. When Germany doesn't bother to answer, doesn't bother to even acknowledge the sound of his voice, Italy will keep pressing, asking whether he's in a bad mood, whether he's tired, whether he's angry, whether he'd rather be with someone else. Germany, if he responds at all, will usually kiss Italy into quiet and bring him up to bed.

It's strange, Germany thinks, because while he often wishes Italy would talk less, right now, even when he wouldn't mind at at all, even when he's _trying_ to talk to him, even when he wants to hear some indication of pleasure, he's being unbearably silent.

"Italy?"

Even with Germany’s lips pressed to the inside of his trembling thigh, even with his fingers pressing in and making him squirm, even with Germany’s mouth on his cock and tongue swirling, Italy does not speak, he does not cry or moan or gasp, he does not make a sound. He says nothing, still, even when he’s so close and his thighs are tensing and body spasming. Not even when Germany makes him come down the back of his throat.

Italy throws an arm over his eyes as Germany, ever the gentleman, spits delicately into a tissue.

"Italy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Germany moves so that he can pull Italy's arm back away from his face. He won't look at him.

"You're so quiet," Germany murmurs, and leans down to kiss him at the side of his mouth.

"There's not much to talk about," Italy says mildly, "when you're doing that."

Germany finds himself unamused.

"You know that's not what I mean. I'm just saying—you're supposed to make noise, you know. Act like you like it."

"What? Will it turn you on if I scream?"

Germany shoves Italy back, kissing him fiercely because he's annoyed, pinning him to the mattress because he can. Italy tries to resist at first, but then Germany reaches under and pushes his fingers back up into him, stretching, teasing, and so he smartly resigns himself to what comes next.

Italy isn't quite ready when Germany enters him; Germany knows it must hurt because it's so tight he can feel the strain around his cock. He looks up again, hoping he'll say something, _anything_ , at least ask him to stop, but Italy's got his hands over his mouth and eyes and refuses to make a sound even now.

"Oh, _fuck,_ " Germany hisses, as politely as he can considering the circumstances, because even he doesn’t want to be doing this. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s doing this.

The silence is broken only by a gasp. Germany looks down to see Italy trembling, blinking away tears, biting down on his lip.

"Please say something," Germany demands in a whisper, against his neck. "Say something," he begs, against that shivering body, but receives no reply. 

In the morning come Italy's complaints. In the afternoon he has stories. In the evenings there are the questions. And in the dark there is silence, desperate, pleading silence, the most terrible sound in the world.


End file.
